


Perfect Weather to Fly

by ameliaspunkcomplex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: College AU, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaspunkcomplex/pseuds/ameliaspunkcomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is everything Castiel has ever wanted; vibrant, alive, an escape. But when life refuses to wait for them, their dreams start to drift further and further away, and Castiel feels like he is clutching at air. Dean, meanwhile, is falling hard and fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfect Weather to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> I have been writing this for over a year and finally decided to slowly release it, a chapter at a time, and see what sort of response it received.  
> Destiel, college au, a little dark and bumpy. Read the warnings

_We had the time and the drive on our hands_

_One little room and the biggest of plans_

_The days were shaping up, frosty and bright_

_Perfect weather to fly, perfect weather to fly_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Castiel met Dean Winchester in the wrong place, at the wrong time. It was that simple notion that made him question how _wrong_ the situation really was, in the end.

He didn’t go to dorm parties. They were too brash and immature for his liking, and either way, he hadn’t come to college to push cheap pot and drink from funnels. Castiel had come for one reason only, and that was to escape his family – anything else was a bonus, and even without the infamous social life, every minute away from home was counted as a blessing. He had never really accustomed to that kind of life; he’d never really had the opportunity to.  So squeezing his way through the loud, congested hallway with his light beer in hand made Castiel Collins flutter more than he usually did, darting gaze his radar for some kind of quiet, dark corner, away from all social contact where he could just-  
“Lighten up, darling!” rang far too close to his ear, somehow still crisp and classy if not slurred more than spoken. Balthazar draped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders to stop him escaping and flashed him a slack grin, spilling a little of his drink and finding it far too funny. “Don’t do the _hermit_ thing, Cas. This is great fun!”

  
Castiel was made uneasy by the pure notion. “I don’t understand what part of this is fun,” he replied, tapping a finger against the neck of his bottle and fighting the urge not to raise a condescending eyebrow at Balthazar. He often wondered how one could go from intellectual to iniquitous mess so quickly, but his friend had it down to a fine art. Still, it was one more friend than he’d had six months ago. The range of students interested in ancient history was worthy of its own study, he’d decided.

“Don’t be boring,” Balthazar groaned, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back through the throes.

“I’m being sensible. This isn’t within my comfort zone.”

“You’re being _boring_. Plus, you promised you’d try and experience campus life, Cassie! If not for yourself, do this for me.”

Castiel stopped dead in the hall, and Balthazar almost tripped over his own feet. “I refuse to listen to anything you say when you can’t walk in a straight line,” he said sharply.

When he’d stopped finding that curiously hilarious, Balthazar rolled his eyes and stumbled vaguely towards a common room. “I was trying to let you know that there was a happy medium,” he insisted, pushing the doors open. “Less people. Still technically the party. Plus, beer fridge.” He smiled like finding a room full of sleepy drunks was a step towards saint-hood, but Castiel was quietly thankful. He glanced around the room – asides from a couple playing vicious tonsil tug-of-war on the sofa, everybody else was either quietly contemplating or unconscious. He returned Balthazar’s smile reluctantly, and let him trip back towards the hall.

“Will you come back out later?” he asked as a girl Castiel had never seen before (and was pretty sure Balthazar hadn’t either) grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

“Hopefully not,” he said to the door as it swung shut.

Castiel was thankful to have the peace and quiet to ponder how sad it was that he wanted _peace and quiet_ at a party, although he preferred _mature_. The only couch free was opposite the entangled pair, and he fought a rising nausea and threw himself into the furniture; bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a swig, he found himself being interrupted by a low chuckle from the other side of the room.

“Too hectic?” the dis-embodied voice asked. When the couple didn’t seem to react, Castiel had to stop and consider the possibility that he was inventing like-minded hermits as imaginary friends, but dropped the notion when the voice spoke up again. It was louder, clearer, and seemed to belong to a shadow on the windowsill that turned around and raised a bemused eyebrow at him. For some reason, it was easier to make out his expression than anything else, even in the dark.

“You deaf, pal?” it asked again, and Castiel stiffened.

“Not deaf,” he replied. “Just too old for this.”

It laughed. “What are you, like eighteen?”

“Nineteen. Old soul.”

The shadow chuckled appreciatively again, blew out a lungful of smoke, and beckoned for Castiel to come over to the windowsill. His reluctance was over-powered by his need to get away from the disturbing noises of saliva being exchanged, and Castiel hauled himself up and padded over to the windowsill.

“Sit,” it commanded rather than asked. _He_ , actually. Castiel could just about make him out in the cloud-poisoned moonlight now, and he looked as vaguely familiar as a face without a name usually does. “You smoke?”

“No,” Castiel said, holding his hand out for a cigarette all the same. Although he found the taste rather repulsive, he could see the calming aspect of smoking. The other guy patted the windowsill as Castiel took the cigarette from him. “Isn’t this the second story?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said the other man, kicking his feet against the wall. “Doesn’t really bother me, though. I usually come here. Why, you ‘fraid of heights or somethin’?”  
  
“Not really,” he mused, letting the guy light his cigarette as he settled on the sill.

They sat in silence for a minute as Castiel adjusted to the burn in his throat and the cool wood against his back. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but more one of mutual understanding, which Castiel liked. There was a brisk draft that nipped at his bare neck with bracing teeth, reminding him that winter was only at its best when locked firmly outside and shielded by central heating and three jumpers.

“I don’t think I know your name,” he said after a moment, shivering just a little and taking a drag on his cigarette to compensate. The burn was welcome, now.

“I’m not surprised. I haven’t seen you around, not more than once or twice.” The other put his cigarette in his mouth, held out his hand and announced from the corner of his lips, “Dean Winchester, nice to meet you.”

Castiel shook his hand and said, “Castiel Collins,” followed by, “You don’t like parties either?”

Dean Winchester laughed again – he seemed to do that a lot, and now Castiel noticed that it was gravelly in a way indicative of the fact that he was a smoker, but not in any sense displeasing – and shook his head. “I’m actually spectacularly drunk right now,” he admitted. “Just taking a breather.”

“And increasing the risk of falling out of a two-story window while intoxicated?”

“I needed some fresh air.”

Castiel exhaled smoke pointedly and said, “Looks like.”

Dean Winchester laughed again.

“You always this harsh?” he asked teasingly, and Castiel quietly thanked the moon for the way it briefly caught the glint of his grin and sharp, green eyes.

“Only when I need to be,” he replied quietly. “Usually large gatherings of inebriated people bring it out in me.”

“You talk funny, too,” Dean pointed out, grinning warmly still, and Castiel couldn’t help but smile. “Really proper. You an English lit kind of guy, or what?”

“Ancient history,” he gently corrected.

“Ah, well. Engineering.”

“Right,” Castiel replied lamely. The clouds fell away, and Castiel thought a silent prayer, because he was able to unashamedly study Dean Winchester and feel an overwhelming sense of awe and a bitter inexplicability. Here was somebody he had just met, who despite giving Greek art a run for its money had done nothing but be tipsy and convoluted, and yet Castiel found himself bashfully intrigued. Dean summed it up when he stubbed his cigarette out on the panel – Castiel could make out previous scorches on the white paint from where he’d sat here before – and said, “So, Castiel. Would it be strange if I wanted to kiss you?”

“Our paths may never cross again,” Castiel pointed out, strangely calm. He made a note to choose a deity and thank it later. “You know, with me being a historian and you an engineer.”

“Once in a lifetime opportunity,” Dean agreed, and Castiel swiftly took out his own cigarette as Dean shuffled forwards a little clumsily and kissed him; it was a little sloppy and probably too rough, and Castiel got the feeling that the smell of whiskey was not an effect of tonight, but more embedded generally in Dean. However he was also much warmer than the winter wind and tasted quite sweet, so it didn’t matter.

Dean thanked Castiel and excused himself because Led Zeppelin was being played, and he couldn’t miss it.

Castiel stayed sitting on the windowsill and tried to convince himself that they would never see each other again.

 

 

_Two years later._

 “ _Welcome to the Hotel California_ ,” Dean sung, with all the enthusiasm to make up for tune. He was on the bed, on his back, eyes closed, playing air-guitar that would have made the Eagles re-consider releasing that song. “ _Such a lovely place_ -“

“I’m just saying I’d love to have my own place,” Castiel pondered aloud from the carpet. “Well, _our_ own place-”

“ _Such a lovely face_ ,”

“-It doesn’t even have to be nice. In fact, I wouldn’t mind it being a little run-down. Some odd-looking mould in a few corners. I think a small, shoddy apartment would be perfect for us.”

Dean rolled over on his side and let Don Henley take over, studying Castiel for a second as he picked at the fraying carpet.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, shrugging and throwing a particularly long piece of thread into the pile he’d started. “I just think it’d be better than this.” This time of the year – summer, now, sneaking up on them and suffocating them – made the dorm rooms stuffy and overbearing, and with the air-conditioning screwed in this part of the building, Castiel had spent unhealthy hours searching for low-rent spaces a bit further into the city.

“You think we could even afford it?” Dean asked, leaning over himself to turn the music down a little. “I mean your course is up at the end of this year, right? And I’ve got one more to go. So do we bother?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I _mean_ is would it just be easier to stick it out until we’re both graduated and try then? Ya know, when we’re employable as-“

“Historians and engineers?”

“Exactly.” Dean smiled crookedly at the running joke that _neither of them actually had any applicable ideas for their post-grad careers,_ and rolled onto his back again, glancing up at the ceiling fan with Castiel as they both wondered how something that made that much of a fuss – groaning and whirring all day – could do such a pathetic job.

“Look,” Castiel said, sitting up straight and crossing his legs underneath him. “I’ve been doing the math, and I think if you keep bustling tables at Harvelle’s , then-”

“Why do I have to be the breadwinner?”

“Because you’re only learning part-time. I’m just saying, I think we can afford it,” Castiel insisted, watching as Dean clambered down from the bed to lay on the ground next to him. Castiel moved closer instinctively, although it was almost 90 degrees and not really a sensible thing to do. “I found a place,” he continued. “It’s only a little more expensive than rent here, and it about twenty minutes out. That’s nothing in the car.”

“Plus, once I’ve graduated, I’ll find work too. That and the savings, and we’ll probably have enough for the road trip.”

Dean rolled on his side and grinned at Castiel. “You reckon, Cas?”

Castiel nodded eagerly, running the math in his head for the thousandth time. “We’ve got a good amount already. Once I get a job it’ll be even better.”

“We’ll have to travel tight,” Dean pointed out, but it wasn’t an argument. This was a conversation they’d had a thousand times – ever since Castiel had started wasting long hours on the floor of Dean’s tiny dorm room listening to classic rock music and telling him about Norse mythology (which Dean had decided was _pretty fucking awesome_ and Castiel had put down to the bloodshed) – and ever since they’d lazily fallen together the Spring after the party. It was hazy and nonsensical and rushed, and neither of them questioned it because they didn’t have to. Because it _worked._

“We could make it work,” Castiel recited, and true to the script Dean nodded in agreement and sighed a little wistfully.

Some days they’d get out the maps and trace their fingers over the marker lines, or Dean would get out his tapes (he refused to conform to the rest of the world, and preferred to stand with his feet firmly in the eighties when it came to technology) and tell Castiel the soundtrack he’d picked out for the journey – from Jimi Hendrix to Queen to Van Halen, and maybe some Elvis thrown in there because it was Castiel’s attempt at appreciating rock music. The music didn’t bother him though, although it wasn’t his style, because it was irrevocably _Dean_ and that made it his favourite genre by simple equation.

“I guess it would be cool to have a… home-base sort of thing, you know?” Dean said after a moment of silence, and it took Castiel another to realise they were talking about the apartment again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, it needs some serious work but-”

“I could do that,” Dean shrugged. “It’d take some time, but we’ve got it, right?”

Castiel just beamed. He could see it in Dean’s eyes – hope and vibrant drive, burning something bright and a little bit vicious. Sometimes it could be concerning, Castiel had found – how obsessed Dean was for this all to go to plan, for the world to fall into place around them – but if his drunken childhood recollections were anything to go by, he had cause. He had years to make up for. And if it would make Dean happy, Castiel would road-trip for the rest of his life, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the Are You Experienced a-side sitting in the Impala.

Dean sat up, tearing the peaceful lull straight down the centre – Castiel hated this part, because sometimes he could trick himself into thinking that the classes would never start and the Eagles tapes would never end, and they could just lay there forever.

“I have to go meet Sammy in the city,” he announced, checking his watch. “I’m a little early but traffic could be a pig.” It came out as more of a question than a statement, but Castiel nodded, sitting up too. “I have an essay to work on anyway,” he said with a sigh, as the both of them stood up and brushed the loose carpet from their clothes. Dean pulled Castiel to him and kissed him briefly and firmly, and although it wasn’t enough for Castiel – it was never enough, really – he could still smell dirt and rain and whiskey, and that echo of Dean would keep him sane for the rest of the day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow if I get back too late tonight,” Dean promised.

“Why don’t you still come to my dorm, even if it’s late? I doubt I’ll be sleeping anyway; not with all this work to finish.”

Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, that prissy guy next to yours always gets pissed when I come over too late.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel replied, somewhat dis-heartened.

“Get some work done, Cas. I need you to be fully qualified in the arts of Ancient History if we’re ever going to be renting shitty apartments together.”

Cas watched him pick up his bag and then the door swing shut behind him, working up the courage to leave behind the Eagles and the squeaky fan and go back to the real world.


	2. But Seriously, How Is Balthazar Passing His Classes? (or, Chapter 2)

Even the crappy, plastic student-chair groaned in protest as Castiel tried to fall back into place with the Tigris-Euphrates river system; fingers hovering over the keyboard, occasionally tapping out a few words and then attacking the backspace button with even greater frustration. Apparently, the Parthians – and, for that matter, most of Mesopotamia –stopped becoming vaguely interesting after the three-thousand word mark.

He sighed and pulled out his phone to call Balthazar.

“Cassie!”

“Hello Balthazar,” Castiel sighed, leaning across his desk to re-tack a falling poster. “Just wondering how far you’ve gotten with the essay.”

“Oh, I’m finished it.”

Castiel rolled his eyes incredulously and slumped into his chair; “When?”

“About two nights ago, why?”

“I don’t even see when you have time to achieve all of this in-between bar-hopping.”

“So I’m guessing you’re _not_ done, then.”

“I hate ancient history.”

There was a hearty chuckle from the other end of the line, and Castiel could practically _hear_ Balthazar’s smug grin. It was entirely unfair that he managed to pull the grades he got out – having never actually seen Balthazar do more than thirty minutes work but bearing witness to his miraculous results, Castiel could conclude that Balthazar was using his _family funding_ as more of a sponsored Mardi-Gras.

“Would you like me to come over? I have whiskey.”

Castiel wished you could be condescending down the phone. “You are the only person in the entire world who learns better with alcohol, Balthazar.”

“Ah, but have you ever tried it?”

“I don’t plan to.”

Castiel glanced up again, at his computer screen, blinking at the end of the same last word he’d written two nights ago and left alone in the middle of a sentence.  
“I’m procrastinating,” he admitted to the phone.

“I agree,” Balthazar said, with that audible smirk. “Get back to work. I’ll come over with alcohol when you’ve finished.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Both. See you, Cas.”

No matter how frustrated, Castiel rarely had much of a considerable temper, so when he _threw_ his phone at the bed, he more so placed it on the mattress and frowned again.

He didn’t like his own dorm room, which meant he found it hard to work in. It was identical, in sense, to everybody else’s – to Dean’s – but unlike Dean’s, it wasn’t the kind of long, drawling heat he associated with wishful thinking and progressive guitar hooks; it was his own, but it was nowhere as familiar, and aside from a few pictures of the siblings he would acknowledge and  a few posters about travel, it was cold. Neither he nor Dean had much _stuff_ to begin with, but even so Dean managed to carry a sense of nostalgic clutter about him. Castiel found it odd to sit in a chair without a leather jacket strewn over the back.

“Nobody cares,” Castiel told the computer. It made a threatening whirring sound, but Castiel thought it probably agreed with him anyway. Computers weren’t renowned for a love of Ancient History.

The sun went down but the heat lingered, and Castiel managed to squeeze out a reluctant thousand words – although he was sure that on revision, he’d probably cut about two thousand – and pushed his chair away from the computer. He grabbed his phone from the bed and unlocked it, although he’d been straining himself for any new calls or messages from Dean and a quick glance confirmed that nothing had snuck past him.

Although contrary to his regularly scheduled insomnia – he and Dean were neck-to-neck in a contest of sleep deprivation, although with the way things were at home Castiel had the sense that Dean was winning by a head – Castiel gave up at the tender hour of eight and fell into his bed, face in the pillow and not bothering to kick his shoes off.

A recurring dream visited him in the pitiful sleep that he got; beginning true to script as a gentle tapping the back of his head and building into a painful crescendo that consumed him until it was too much, filling his subconscious and forcing him awake. He’d looked it up once or twice, and apparently it was a common reaction to a sense of losing control or feeling unstable. Castiel put it down to his workload.

He woke up on the brink of the knocking to _real_ knocking at his door, and had to take a moment to catch his breath as he sat up, still slightly disorientated and left with the echo of the noise in his mind. Sometimes it wouldn’t leave for hours, for a whole day.

Castiel turned his pillow over where a small pool of dribble had collected, and sat up straight, walking over to the door – stopping to briefly glance at the clock on his bedside table, which read 1:15 in proud, taunting neon – and pulled the door open. Dean was slumped against the doorframe, and, well, he looked like crap.

Castiel’s shoulders fell, and Dean looked up at him warningly. His eyes were ragged and flaunted bags, but they also reminded him that Dean _didn’t do pity._

He just stepped back and let him inside and Dean brushed past him wordlessly, took a seat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. The air was so brittle for that brief moment, so raw, that Castiel was petrified to say a word for fear of watching it come crashing down around them.

“I talked to Sammy. Same old shit at home,” Dean said, and the tension hung in shards like stalactites on the roof of a cave; the bed dipped a little as Castiel sat beside him, still tentative. “He and Dad had a massive argument. Now Sammy’s at Bobby’s and Dad says he won’t pay for his college.”

Silence.

“It wasn’t even important,” he continued. “Some petty bullshit, man. They just completely fucking go at each other’s throats, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. And you know, that whole objects colliding, collateral damage. It just screws everything up.”

“John might not be serious,” Castiel offered; to be honest, he didn’t know Dean’s father well enough to say. It’d been unspoken that family was off limits, with Sam being the only exception. “He might still pay.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Dean replied hollowly, and Cas could see the anger in his terse jaw; faded, slightly blind, which he got from the bitter smell of bourbon. “But Bobby said he sounded serious. And let’s be honest, it’s not like we were ever made of law-school money in the first place. I worked every hour I freakin’ had to get here, Cas.”

“What did Sam have to say?” Castiel probed gently.

“Uh… that dad could shove his funds up his ass.” Dean turned to Castiel and smiled a little, Castiel revelling in the fleeting crinkles at the side of his eyes.

“Could Sam get a scholarship?” he asked.

“Probably,” Dean agreed, picking up a little and nodding firmly as if re-assuring himself.

“He’s very intelligent.”

“He’s the smartest kid I know.”

Then the silence hung again, but not in threatening shards of rock; gently, as exhausted as them, too tired to move.

Dean put his hands on his knees and rocked forwards a little, glancing around the room with red eyes and coming to rest on his computer, asking, “Did you get any of your essay done?” and falling over his words slightly.

“A little,” Castiel said, but Dean was suddenly more pre-occupied in pulling them both to lay down on the bed, throwing one of his legs over Castiel and tucking his head into the crook between his neck and shoulder. Castiel decided that he was probably a little more intoxicated than he’d dared to hope.

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” he asked quietly into Castiel’s ear, tracing a heavy finger over the outline of Castiel’s collarbone and drawing a light shiver from the other; the other who just put his hand over his shoulder to rest on Dean’s cheek in a _yes_ , _of course,_ more poignant than words. Their conversations were eternal and their music defined them, but Castiel found most comfort in how much they could say in caresses that had evolved from clumsy to as familiar as self. Dean knew every one of Castiel’s lean, sharp angles; Castiel, Dean’s muscle toning down to the way his trapezius pulled tight when he rolled his head back in bliss. He felt light touch down his spine and warm lips at the nape of his neck, and he almost let himself fall into sensation, but Castiel turned so he and Dean were only an inch apart and took his hand away from his cheek to rest gently, but firmly on his arm.

Dean’s hand stopped in its tracks and he glanced questioningly up; confused, a little sad, and brilliantly verdant.

“No,” Castiel whispered.

“Is it because I’m drunk?” Dean slurred, quite ironically, with a thread of hurt strewn in his tone.

“You know the rules,” he replied simply, instead planting a tiny, fleeting kiss on Dean’s forehead. “You can stay. But… no.”

Dean huffed like a child and rolled over to face away from Castiel, but he didn’t protest when there was an arm thrown over his shoulder and a head against his back, in a mirror of a minute ago.

It was rarely on these nights that sleeplessness had them – Castiel couldn’t think of a better remedy for insomnia than in the enveloping dip of Dean’s clavicle – and even if it did, together was a fine way to spend a night staring at the ceiling, dry eyes, whirring minds, entwined fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said quietly after a minute.

“For what?”

“I didn’t realise that you’d be sleeping when I came.”

Castiel just laughed softly, glanced over at the clock again. “In your defence, I’m usually not. It’s fine, really.” He took his arm away from the broads of Deans shoulder and threw it back, over his waist, grateful when Dean tangled his fingers in the hand resting at his navel.

“I should sleep, actually,” he said. “My head is fucking killing me.”

“It’s the stress,” Castiel replied, with the passing notion that he should have taken up a degree in medicine instead. He smiled at his self-deprecating internal monologue.

“The whiskey probably didn’t help either,” Dean said because Castiel wouldn’t. Didn’t.

“Just sleep.”

Dean shrugged and Castiel saw his gaze fall towards the window – something he’d done a thousand times, coming to the realisation that people who thought the moon was beautiful obviously got their recommended eight hours, because Castiel eyed it often with a burning hatred for it’s stupid, too-bright incandescence. It wasn’t poetic, it was a sneering reminder.

“I said I should sleep, not that I could,” Dean argued. “Cas… what if Sam doesn’t get a scholarship? What if Dad doesn’t pay up? I sure know Bobby doesn’t have that kind of money, neither does Sammy. What if we have to use the Trip funds?”

“Then we’ll use the trip funds,” Castiel replied soothingly, because somebody had to be sure; “and we’ll start again. We’ve got as long as we need, I promise.”

“As long as we need,” Dean echoed. He didn’t sound sure enough.

 


	3. A Shared Silence, Made Immortal

There was the insufferable absence of warmth far too early for Castiel, followed by the sound of splatter on porcelain and a dry, gravel retching echoing through from the tiny toilet.

“Dean?” he called, croaky and still half-way stolen by sleep. “Are you okay?”

The reply was a hacking cough and a groan.

Castiel pushed himself to sitting up, running a hand over his face and working sleep from his eyes with a tired yawn. Shaking the numbness from his left arm, he padded over to the closet-bathroom.

The sun was up, but it was summer so that didn’t mean anything. The clock had stopped working at some point in the night, but seeing as Castiel had bought it at a discount store for twelve dollars it was expected to some time, anyway. He guessed at about six a.m., meaning he’d had just under five hours sleep. For either of them, that was a blessing.

He leant against the doorframe, cool against his neck, and Dean seemed to be following the same logic as he slumped his head against the tiles.

“Were you that drunk?” Castiel asked.

“No!” Dean protested weakly. “And even if I was, I never get hung-over man. I’m in my prime! This doesn’t happen.”

Castiel chuckled softly. “Do you want me to get you some Advil”

“Yeah, and a glass of water? I’ve still got a fucking migraine.”

The fact that he had been wearing the same clothes for about twenty-four hours now was nothing new to Castiel’s student life, so he didn’t bother to change before walking the two minutes down to the communal kitchen. Rummaging through a drawer, he found the assorted packets of pills, grabbed two ibuprofen and filled a glass, and walked back towards the continued retching noises.

Crouching by Dean proved somewhat difficult in the limited space they had, but Castiel was down on one knee beside him and gently put the pills in his hand, slid the cool glass across the tiles and waited for him to finish emptying his stomach.

Dean murmured something but his face was pressed against the floor again; Castiel took it as a thanks, and gently patted his back.

When the toilet was slightly cleaner and pills had been taken, they walked back into the room and Dean laid down on the bed again. Usually he wouldn’t let Cas stroke his hair or, quote, “Any of that girly shit,” but he didn’t seem to have as much of a problem with it this morning, slightly more preoccupied with pushing his face into the bedding and making pained groaning noises.

“I think I’m sick, Cas,” he told the bed.

“I think you’re hung-over.”

Dean lifted his head to glare. “I told you, I don’t get hungover. I’ve had a killer headache and a stiff neck for days now. It sucks.”

Castiel shrugged and sat up a little, pulling a pillow behind his back and running his hand through Dean’s hair again. “You should go see a doctor,” he suggested.

“What, and waste sixty fucking dollars?”

A fleeting crease met Castiel’s brow. “Don’t you have health insurance? It’s cheap, here.”

Dean shook his head. “I was so skint once I’d paid rent and everything, I didn’t think it was worth it. It’s fine, I know like… twelve med students. I’ll just ask one of ‘em if they reckon they know what’s wrong.”

“It’s probably just a cold.”

“Yeah, I’m not running a fever or anything. Head just hurts like a bitch.”

“Make sure you put that down as a symptom,” Castiel teased, shifting a little closer and smiling. Dean elbowed him gently and curled back up on the sofa. He looked vulnerable, a little smaller and frayed around the edges, the creeping sunlight catching all of the tired lines around his eyes and lips. This summer he was starting to carry a prematured agedness about him.

Dean was worn out and fell asleep again almost immediately, and as easy as it would have been for Castiel to nestle in beside him – take advantage of the fact that Dean was too tired to protest cuddling – but Castiel instead decided to fill the hours in marvel. He said fill, and not waste, because there was nothing lazy about looking at Dean – there was always something new to see, always another side of him that left Castiel winded in the more painful than romantic sense. Every day there was another word for green, or another freckle, or another way his muscles moved in tangent.

Dean wasn’t attractive; no, Dean was the sort of person that made you grab that dusty thesaurus from the shelf, the Oxford kind, and recite words like _resplendent_ and _statuesque_. In Castiel's mind, _celestial_ fit him perfectly. Not in the Hallmark-card, halo and fluffy wings sense, but that Dean was sleek-marble and strong, awesome in the way the Discovery channel described the Solar System and not in the way Dean described hamburgers.

Castiel wasn’t a religious man. Having grown up under the imposing thumb of a hateful Christian family, he’d watched his faith drain like muddy water down a stormdrain, but in these early hours of the morning he thought that there should be a new religion, one that wasn’t in gold-threaded churches, but sweaty dorm rooms. They wouldn’t sing gospel, they would sing _Smoke on the Water,_ and they would worship with clumsy hands and lips.

He didn’t need something bigger than them, because they were as large as the sun in this tiny room, on the single bed, Castiel’s feet hanging off the edge and Dean snoring a chorus.

This entire thought process lasted a whole minute and also about five hours, until Castiel actually drifted off himself. It was hazy, light sleep, the kind that made you feel warm and put a knot in your shoulder, until Castiel’s phone buzzed somewhere under the covers and he gently lifted Dean’s feet to one side to retrieve it. Technology was truly his ruin; it denied him sleep, and then sanity, and then peace.

 The phone was low on battery – he made a mental note to charge it. The screen still managed to be too bright, even on one bar.

[Text] Come out for drinks tonight? Bring Dean. I’m worried you’re turning him into as much of a recluse as you are ;) [Text]

“Tell whoever it is to go away,” Dean said with all the irritability of the tired, and none of the conviction.

“It’s Balthazar,” Castiel said anyway. “He wants us to come out for drinks tonight.”

Dean managed to scoff with his face still pressed into the pillow.

“I know you don’t like him, but-”

“He’s a douche, Cas. You shouldn’t either.”

“He’s my _friend_.”

“Whatever.” He sat up, winced a little-

“Does your head still hurt?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah, a bit.” Dean chewed on his lip and checked his watch as Castiel took the excuse to ponder his lips. “Look, it’s one! As in the afternoon,” Dean said proudly, melting into a grin and holding up his watch for Castiel to see. “As in we slept in. Like real people.”

“Just like real people,” Castiel agreed, laughing. The little things that made them happy were surprising. “So you don’t want to go out tonight?”

The other sighed; “I know he’s your friend, and I guess it’s pretty civil of him to invite me. But I’m just really tired, like wiped out.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, pressing _reply_ to the text. “You haven’t slept that well in weeks, Dean. What are you talking about?”

“I’m always tired at the moment,” Dean said, shrugging.

“You’re putting way too much of yourself into your dad, and Sam,” Castiel murmured.   
  
[Text] Sorry, we’re completely shattered. Another night perhaps? [Text]  
  
“Cas, Sammy needs me so much more than he thinks. I can't just up and ditch him, not now. Fact, I should go see John soon... ya know, mediation...”

[Sent]

Castiel put the phone down on the bed and met Dean’s gaze, and in it was the stubbornness to be everything for everyone even if it stretched him thinner than paper.

“ _I_ think you need to look after yourself more,” he argued quietly.

“Yeah, well,” Dean sat up against the wall and looked away. After hours spent learning his body language, Castiel knew that he meant he knew he was probably wrong, and it wasn’t going to make a difference. “I’ll _look after myself_ when I know that Sam’s going to college, and my dad still acknowledges he has two sons.”

“It’s just going to keep making you stressed. It’s why you’re sick.”

“Gotta be done.”

Another buzz, and Castiel held up a finger. _One second._

[Text] Ah, you’re no fun. You two win the award for oldest couple on campus. Well, except Green and his wife. Did you know it’s their fithtieth anniversary?” [Text]

Castiel smirked at his screen, although Dean was watching him curiously.

[Text] Why on Earth would I know that? [Text]

[Text] Sometimes it pays to know the professors a little better, Cassie. [Text]

“You okay?” Castiel asked Dean, looking up with a frown. His left instantly, and he shook his head.

“Fine,” he said as though it was obvious, tilting his head. “Why?”

“No reason.”

[Text] I don’t think you mean how that sounded. [Text], he sent, waiting for the last reply -

[Text] Or do I? [Text]

\- before turning his phone off.

“Well I don’t have any classes until tomorrow,” Castiel announced.

“A lecture at four,” Dean added, “But I’m not going. I’m too tired, and I’m not gonna concentrate.”

“That’s understandable.”

There was a pause. They shared a lot of pauses; uncomfortable ones, soulful ones, but this was one of those long, beautiful, contemplating pauses that made the latter half of the afternoon seem like the ripe time to do anything, be anywhere. Of course, in the end, they would choose a dorm room, a tape, a familiar conversation. But in that pause, they could have chosen anything. It was a pause that made them feel infinite.

“Why don’t we watch a movie?” Castiel suggested, and Dean lit up just a little. Some day, Castiel would compile a list of things he could say or do that made Dean light up like that, and he would set to achieve at least six of them on a daily basis.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” Dean agreed. “You still haven’t finished your-”

“Pop culture one-oh-one,” Castiel finished with a grin.

“Oh god.” Dean faux-groaned, dramatically exasperated. “Are we seriously finishing each other’s sentences? Cas, man, I think it’s about time for a suicide pact.”

Castiel threw the only object in proximity – his phone – at Dean, who pretended to be hurt for the sake of Castiel’s masculinity, and he pulled himself from the bed to sort through his film collection. Sure, Dean had all the good music, or so he said; hundreds of tapes, a certified lyrical education. But Castiel had every cult classic under the sun, a few dreadful movies he knew Dean would enjoy, and all of his personal favourites sitting in neat, categorised order, his own respective pride and joy.

 _Pulp Fiction_ was the best of both worlds. Castiel loved Tarantino, and Dean loved violence.

Dean, who spotted Uma sprawled across a bed from their own; Dean, who bounded down beside Castiel and teasingly recited; “I love you pumpkin,” which Castiel took to be a confirmation to his choice.

The DVD player he had was probably the only nice thing Castiel had in his room; the TV it worked for wouldn’t catch the eye of anybody but an antique salesman, and the rickety make-shift stand for both of them was on its last legs (literally: it originally had four) but the player was sleek, black, and actually worked, unlike any of Castiel’s other worldly possessions. He guessed it was to him what Dean’s tape player was vice-versa, and somewhat worth the considerable hole it’d blown in his pocket. 

“And I love you too, honey-bunny,” Castiel joked, careful to keep his tone light. He wiped down the top although it wasn’t dusty – it rarely was – and sliding the disc in. It was a little scratched, and Castiel knew that it jumped in some places (he actually knew which places specifically) – but he put it down to a good amount of adoration, like the cracked spine of a well-loved book.

“Now everybody be cool, this is a robbery!” Dean cried, putting a hand over Castiel’s mouth and dragging him back by the waist to rest against a chest of drawers because, well, they rarely had much room for manoeuvre as it was and the bed was an exhausted location. The knobs of the drawer dug into Castiel’s spine just a bit, but it didn’t matter because these things never seemed to, not with Dean.

Castiel twisted his upper body just slightly to kiss Dean, because he couldn’t help it, because Dean’s lips were like crack-cocaine in the loveliest sense. Dean leant into him, kissed him deeply and artfully, a kiss that said _thanks_ to nothing in particular; _thanks for taking my mind off dad,_ or _thanks for not making me go out,_ although in all honesty Castiel hadn’t really wanted to leave in the first place. He met Dean with an equally passionate _you’re welcome,_ and then he was made to turn around and watch the film.

The whole movie was like that pause. For those 150-something minutes, there was a strange vastness. Even though they were where they always were - on the floor, in front of the TV, mouthing along to the actors - it felt like they could have been anywhere. Not that Castiel could have been anywhere, or that Dean could have been anywhere, but that _they_ were immeasurable and without bounds. Castiel lived for those pauses.

 

 

 


	4. Weekend At Bobby's

Castiel lived for the pauses.

He really did; he wished their vast silence could last forever and a day. But things got in the way as things often did, and life refused to wait for the boundless pauses of Dean and Castiel.

Classes, for example, wouldn’t wait for them.  Castiel had lectures to attend, as did Dean; the both of them had work to do, things to achieve –

“ _Just like real people”_

\- and Dean’s things that begged fulfilment more often than not fell around throwing himself between his brother and father. It was an argument they had too often; Dean would complain he was tired, or stressed, or that his head hurt, and Castiel would tell him to look after himself more. They never came to a resolution because there wasn’t one, because Castiel knew that Dean would run himself to the edge of the Earth for his family.Sometimes, it made Castiel uneasy when he considered what Dean would do for _him_. More often than not, he was worried that he was stretching Dean too taut, that he would snap from being pulled in three different directions and still insist on being everything for everyone.  

Dean was stretched so thin that Castiel didn’t seem him for a few days. Although this was normal, it didn’t stop the horrible feeling in his stomach, the too-obvious empty air against him where there should be warmth.

With each passing day, Castiel needed the apartment more and more. He didn’t want to lose sight of Dean, and if they lived together he could make sure that never happened. He needed to watch him cook and he needed Dean to leave muddy boots by the front door. He needed the clutter that Dean carried with him, and he needed it to fill a shared space bigger than a dorm room, because a dorm room wasn’t big enough for Dean. His entire essence could burn up a sun, Castiel thought; when you stuck it in a room more suited to a walk-wardrobe, it fed on itself.

Wednesday flitted past, followed by Thursday which seemed to drag its feet a little, and Friday, which came to a grinding halt. He knew it was because the weekend was after, which was all theirs, and work was trying to consume him in the short time it had left. But he powered through what little he had left _with_ what little he had left, determined to prove that as tall as his wave of work had built itself, they still had the shore of Saturday and Sunday.

They would go out, because they always stayed in. They would get in the Impala and Castiel would almost be jealous at the way Dean’s face split wide into a grin because he wished he was as consistent as the car, and half as dependable.  They would drive to a bar, or maybe down to the river, and Dean would nurse a beer and they’d talk about everything.

That was what Castiel thought until Friday rolled around and he had a call from Dean.

“Hey, Cas. I’m gonna be gone for the weekend. I’m gonna stay at Bobby’s, and I’ll go talk to dad while I’m out here.”

“Ah.” Castiel had been spinning a pen between his fingers, but he put it down.

“Hey, I know you don’t want me doing all this messenger shit, but I-”

“It’s not what I want,” Castiel argued, although it partly was everything to do with he wanted. “It’s just that it’s killing you, Dean. Still got a headache?”

“Yeah, but-”

“You’ve been tired for weeks. Proof that it’s tearing you apart.” Castiel paused, and added in a slightly smaller voice, “The weekend is us. It’s always been for us.”

“I know, Cas!” Dean sounded finished. Castiel couldn’t think of a simpler or sadder word. “I know, okay?” he sighed. “But the sooner we sort all this shit out, the sooner we can get back to the important stuff.”

“The trip?” Castiel interjected, hopefully.

“Yeah, the trip. If dad still doesn’t mind us having the car for-”

“You said it was practically yours!”

“It is! But when he gets pissy with Sam, he gets pissy with me. I just don’t want him turning back on the whole deal.”

Castiel chewed on his lip where it was already raw; two little teeth marks indented into pink, fresh skin. They were pretty dry too, come to think of it. Castiel was almost glad Dean wasn’t here to see his mauled lips and bleeding fingernails, because he would probably think it was his fault and he wouldn’t understand that when Castiel got overworked, he got anxious, and when he was anxious, he got biting. It was an unappealing habit at the best of times, but it wasn’t anybody’s fault.

“What if I came with you?” he said carefully.

“What?”

“I said what if I came to Bobby’s house. To see John. Maybe it would make it easier for you to talk to him. Would he yell as much if I was there?”

Dean mulled it over for a second. “I guess not.”

“Right. And would Bobby mind?”

“Bobby’s house is a fucking hostel between Sammy and Jo right now. I don’t think he’d even notice.”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, and then remembered he was on the phone. “Jo?”

“Ran away from home.”

“Something she usually does?”

“Almost weekly.”

Castiel chuckled weakly – a sort of _what disfunctional people we all are,_ chuckle, and Dean’s was a small _fuckin’ A, Cas,_ kind of laugh in reply.

“It’s a really long drive,” Dean pointed out. “Like, eight hours.”

Castiel wished his smile could be seen down the phone. “Good practice,” he countered.

“The trip, right.” There was a grin in Dean’s voice, though, so maybe he’d caught Castiel’s. “Maybe it would be good for you to be there,” he said slowly, “What if I came picked you up at about one? We’ll go see dad on Saturday.”

Castiel looked at the pile of books on his desk, which _had_ become a pile despite his best efforts. But books could wait. He had a lifetime ahead of him for books.

“That’s fine with me,” he said.

“Awesome. Just, uh…” another pause from the other end. “John doesn’t know about, you know-”

“I get it,” Castiel assured him, “it’s fine. Roommate, right?”

“My roommate, Castiel.” There was another small laugh, as if he was playing with the phrase. It sounded foreign; not because they’d never defined themselves as such, but because they’d never _defined_ themselves. “Got it. Just pack a small bag. I’ll be over in a couple hours, okay?”

Castiel realised as he was searching through his shirts that most of them were Dean’s anyway. He threw a Black Sabbath tee and something plain white, boring, into his bag figuring that if he could wear the same jeans for a week at times, then three days would be nothing. He was a student. It was allowed.

Plus, Dean wasn’t exactly a critic when it came to fashion. People in glass houses.

A toothbrush, to feign some semblance of hygiene, a few hours of glaring at his textbooks, and then Dean was knocking on his door and wearing that lazy grin of his, which Castiel couldn’t help kissing.

“Woah, woah, watch it,” he chuckled when Cas threw an arm around him; sending him stumbling slightly. “Still a little sick,” he explained. “Haven’t quite got my sea-legs, ya know?”

They walked through the student car-park to a few streets down, because Dean “didn’t want any of those jarheads keying my baby,” and had secured a secluded spot on some no-through road. Castiel beamed like a fool at the car, because Dean’s love for it was infectious and it was the same as his Zeppelin tapes and his fraying band t-shirts – any extension of him was an extension of Castiel.

“Did you talk to any of the med kids?” Castiel asked, dipping to climb into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, actually! Ash, man.” Dean grinned over his shoulder, sticking an arm out of the window to re-adjust the wing mirror. “He said it’s a sinus infection. The headaches, the stiff neck. He said to take… what’s it called? Amoxi-somthin’.” He shook his collar, and something rattled in his box; assumedly the box of pills. “Said it’ll clear up, although…”

Castiel glanced at him. “Although what?”

Dean chuckled sheepishly. “Although he said the stress didn’t help.”

Castiel just raised an eyebrow and smiled, running his finger along the tapes under the player. “You’re in a better mood,” he noted.

The engine starting cut him off. “What?”

“I said you’re in a better mood than usual.”

Sometimes you could wonder if Dean felt that he knew his car so well that he never had to watch the road, with the amount of time he spent with eyes off of it. Now, he was looking at Castiel with the kind of adoration Castiel sometimes felt he could only give, never could believe he would ever get it in return. Not for a lack of self-esteem, but because there was nothing in the world worthy of that kind of adoration other than Dean Winchester.

“That some kind of crime now?” he asked, teasing glint in his eye.

“It’s nice.”

Dean nodded. “I’m glad. Put on Radiohead. It’s there somewhere.”

An approving nod and slender fingers leafing through the collection again; the car’s personal section was almost a _best of._ For all its age, the Impala didn’t show it as it swallowed the tape smoothly, and Dean sang along to _Iron Lung_. Castiel just hummed, because he was content with watching the real masterpiece drum work-worn hands on the wheel of the car.

They had never only been to Bobby’s once together, to grab a jacket that Dean had left behind and ask for the map they planned their trips on. Otherwise Dean went down alone about once a month, usually on a Monday when he didn’t have classes, to check in. Sometimes he would head down on Saturday or Sunday when Castiel was busy, not if he wasn’t. The weekend was theirs.

Dean always said he owed Bobby more than he could ever repay him, in this lifetime at least, and although he didn’t go into specifics, Castiel didn’t mind. He respected Bobby.

They drove all day, with the exception of stopping at some road-side café where Dean ate Pecan pie and got it all over his chin, slapping Castiel when he tried to wipe him with a napkin and telling him that he wasn’t a child, and there were a thousand witty retorts that Castiel didn’t make when he smirked and drank his coffee. The small hole in the side of the road was a dip into serendipity: it was rustic, a little run-down, and in the dim evening light only one bulb flickered vaguely above them, but the only woman working was a kind southern belle with twinkling eyes and she carried about her Dean’s sense of nostalgic clutter. Castiel wondered briefly if diners and houses and hotels passed judgement on people, and if so, if they loved Dean almost as much as he did and that was why every place Dean visited reflected him in some way.

The tapes ran out on the outskirts of Sioux Falls, and the Impala buzzed softly as they pulled into the salvage yard. Looking around, Castiel wondered if he liked Bobby’s place because it made him think about Dean if he wasn’t so watered down. If Dean was bourbon, then Bobby was the bottle somebody had reserved, intended to age, and forgotten about in the cellar: musty and grubby and sitting quietly in the shadows. Bobby’s house was one of faded photographs and leaves that hadn’t been raked in years but rather embedded themselves into the grass and dirt and walls.

Castiel saw Sam standing on the front porch, head almost brushing the arch of the first-level roof. How was it even possible for him to have grown again? He waved at the car as it pulled alongside the curb of the road, and Dean waved back. He put them into park, and nodded for Castiel to follow him.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean said with a grin, giving him what looked like a painfully-suffocating bear hug, even though Sam was already beating him by a head and was starting to look like a _real_ bear.

“How’s it going Castiel?” the younger Winchester asked. Castiel nodded politely, and shook his hand. “Good to see you.” There was a reserved stiffness between him and Sam that was understandable. They’d only met a handful of times, but they had mutual ground in his brother, and Castiel would like to walk it a little when they had time.

“Come in and have a beer, boys,” Bobby said, appearing from nowhere in a way you wouldn’t assume somebody his age and build could. He clasped Dean’s hand, made a gruff but not inhospitable sound at Castiel, and stepped aside to let all three of them in.

 

 

 


End file.
